


A Different Seven Year Itch

by miznarrator (lately)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, M/M, Mild Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-01
Updated: 2012-10-01
Packaged: 2017-11-15 10:49:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/526475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lately/pseuds/miznarrator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>TeenTelevision: Tyler Posey says you guys met at the audition for the show and have been good buds ever since. Is your dynamic as friends anything like Stiles and Scott’s or very different?</p><p>Dylan: The dynamic is completely opposite because, in real life, I’m the werewolf, just trying to cope.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Different Seven Year Itch

There’s a perverse irony in the fact Dylan plays a human on the show about werewolves. What with being the only _actual_ werewolf in the cast.

He thought he’d have to hide it all, subsume it into film school, stay behind the camera until it all passed. But instead, he's in front of the camera, and at least when you're an actor you're _supposed_ to turn into someone else. On set, Dylan is getting paid to pass as a human, just like the Tylers are getting paid to act like (the show’s version of) werewolves. And it’s freeing, talking about it, even when it’s just words from the script and dumb riffing on the show’s (wrong, wrong, wrong) internal logic. It means that Dylan can unembarrassedly act on all the shit that's meant to be fiction, the wolfy things he’s spent years actively suppressing: the constant touching, the sniffing, the – face it – even the _flakiness_ of being two people.

So yeah. Dylan _loves_ his job. It’s honest work, honest in so many senses of the word; Dylan maybe gets carried away with it, giddy on this faintest scent of disclosure. He makes mistakes, lets things slip, forgets to hide everything he should be hiding.

Dylan tells Posey first, in just such a foolish (as in, pot-induced) state of euphoria. It’s early on, and Dylan is just so _relieved_ by what the script represents, by the easy affection of his castmates. The words just – slip out, borne on an exhalation of smoke and chased by a nervous giddy giggle.

Fortunately, Posey is as stoned out of his mind as Dylan, and takes the information like some sort of Schroedinger's cat (Schroedinger’s werewolf?) of a joke. It can't possibly be true that Dylan is actually a werewolf – but somehow, simultaneously, Posey obviously seems to believe it isn't a lie, either. 

(Only in Posey’s mind, Dylan thinks, could this sort of thing happen, like two circuits running in parallel, blinking true-not-true at the same time, never intersecting.)

Posey, in turn, tells anyone who will listen. Fortunately, Posey’s reputation as a weirdo is already solid enough that everyone just – just _rolls_ with it. Either that or they just assume he’s high, which isn’t that far off the mark most of the time.

So in very short order, everyone else knows, even if they all think it’s just a hilarious joke.

All, apparently, except for Hoechlin.

It’s after a joint script reading with the three of them – Dylan, Posey, and Hoechlin, They’re lounging around the O'Brien-Posey living room. On the coffee table the scripts are open to Scott and Stiles talking about Scott’s werewolf senses.

"Dude, does that even make sense, being able to hear just one conversation in a huge crowd of people? I mean, isn’t it super-confusing with everything being loud? How do you deal?" Posey's script hangs down between his hairy knees. He looks weird from Dylan’s vantage point: draped off the couch with his head down, his own script on the carpet. 

"Nah, man,” answers Dylan absently. “It's like – when you're in a club or whatever, and you can tune in to the conversation that's in front of you? Like that. It's still loud and shit, but it's not distracting."

Posey looks momentarily puzzled, tilting his head to one side before nodding. "Oh, okay, I get it."

And the reading session goes on from there, Dylan not thinking much of it until Hoechlin gets up to leave. Instead of just one-arm-hugging them both on the way out, he hesitates with his hands stuffed into his jacket pockets, then says, "Hey Dylan, come out to my car with me, I've got something I want to give you."

Dylan rolls off the couch and clambers to his feet, light-headed and cheerful enough that he doesn’t think of questioning Hoechlin’s request. He just follows him gamely outside. Hoechlin goes around the far side of his car like he’s going to open the driver’s side door, but he stops there, crossing his arms over the roof and making no move towards the door handle. 

Dylan blinks at him, thrown. Something's up; this much is obvious from Hoechlin’s maneuvering, like he thinks he needs an entire car between them as armour before he can say whatever it is he wants to say.

"Dude,” says Hoechlin, frowning faintly, “is – is Posey _not_ joking about the whole werewolf thing?"

It's the perfect moment for all of the _acting_ classes to come to his aid. Instead, Dylan slips into Stiles helplessly, thoughtlessly: Stiles, who can't fucking lie to save his life. "I, uh. I – what? What are you talking about?"

Hoechlin's eyes go wide at this, and a mental buzzer goes off in Dylan's head, the sound when you lose on The Price Is Right: _bzzzt dun dun dunnnnn_.

"Holy shit,” says Hoechlin, a little breathlessly.

"Yeah, I know," Dylan replies, matching Hoechlin’s tone. Before he knows what he’s doing, he catches himself doing a literal facepalm. Jesus fuck. He's not even high this time. What the _fuck_?

"I guess it's supposed to be a secret, huh," says Hoechlin.

"Yeah, uh." _Shit_. There's no script here for how to come out of the lycanthropic closet; pretty much no one knows the truth, because there are no fucking pride parades for not-quite-humans.

“Don’t worry. I got it," Hoechlin says, cutting through the white noise of Dylan's incipient panic attack. 

Dylan nervously slips his hand down from over his eyes and sees that Hoechlin's smiling, like it's no big deal. Like instead of coming out as a _werewolf_ , he'd come out as— 

"So, ah, while we're doing horrifying confessions, I guess you might want to know I'm bi too," Dylan blurts, just as Hoechlin opens his mouth to say something else. Because – what the hell, at this point.

Hoechlin blinks, then quirks half a smile. "Okay. That's cool."

And that’s that. Hoechlin gets into his car, grins at Dylan through the windshield, and drives off. 

No big deal. No questions about biting, or what happens during the full moon, or if any of them are in any physical danger from Dylan. 

Dylan watches Hoechlin’s tail lights turn to red pinpoints and finally remembers to exhale.

*

Hoechlin's over all the time now, suddenly: playing video games with Posey, reading scripts, talking baseball with Dylan all while poking his finger into whatever dinner Dylan’s cooking that night. Plenty of excuses for Dylan to get all up into Hoechlin’s space in exchange, because he is _not_ going to miss out on the best quality cuddling available in Atlanta. Especially when all that physical contact is with that hot-ass body of Hoechlin’s.

“Things are cool with the two of you, right?” Posey asks one night, right after Hoechlin’s left, full of Dylan’s mom’s meatloaf and a couple hours of gaming.

“What, me and Hoechlin? Yeah, why wouldn’t they be? Did they seem uncool?” It couldn’t have been anything too obvious, with Hoechlin and Dylan sharing the couch all night, Posey in the chair nearby. It’s how they’re still sprawled now, though Dylan has the couch to himself. 

“You just seem—really touchy-feely, you know?”

“I—“ Dylan stops, because it’s not like he didn’t _notice_ but – it’s a wolf thing, the touching. Acting on something so instinctual tends slip under the logic radar. “We all are?” he tries, which earns him a slow grin and Posey’s eyes going crinkly.

“Hey, no one’s complaining, right?”

It only takes Dylan a second to recover, a mental rock forward from heel to toe. He raises his hand for Posey to high-five. “No, man, that’s right.”

“Awesome,” Posey says, reaching out to slap Dylan’s hand. He reaches for the baggie on the coffee table. “More pot?”

*

The sleeping-cuddling-thing starts one night after they've all collapsed in a post-weed-pizza-beer coma with Posey in his room, Dylan in his, and Hoechlin sacked out on the couch. At least, Hoechlin's on the couch when Dylan flops on his own bed, but some indeterminate amount of time later, he's crouched down next to Dylan’s nightstand, gently shaking his shoulder.

"Hey, can I come crash with you? Your couch is giving me a massive crick in my neck."

Sleeping-cuddling is a-ok double thumbs up in Dylan’s books, so he rolls over and flips back the covers. “C’mon in, the water’s fine,” he mumbles.

In the morning, after two cups of coffee and a McMuffin on the way to set, Dylan wonders how many nights Hoechlin's endured before, without complaint, on their couch. He stops counting after he runs out of fingers, catching Hoechlin's eye as they make their way from makeup to the set. The smile Dylan gets back is very much like the one he got this morning upon waking up, two breaths away from Hoechlin, knees and shins and fingertips and elbows touching.

“Are you guys—?” Posey asks, later, as they both leave makeup together, Hoechlin staying behind for wolfy rubberizing.

“Are we…” Dylan repeats, distracted enough by his defective, and thus leaking, third cup of coffee he doesn’t immediately understand.

“You know. A thing. You and Hoechlin.”

Now _that_ gets through. “Whoa, what?” This feels uncomfortably like they’re about to have the ‘sock on the doorknob’ conversation, which is so not what’s going on.

Posey stops too, frowning. “Hey, man, it’s cool, I just wanted to check, okay?”

“Yeah, no, it’s not a thing, it’s—“ He stops, awkward like he almost never is with Posey, who’s only outclassed in the ‘easygoing’ department by Hoechlin. (Maybe it’s something about Tylers.) 

“It’s a thing that’s not a thing?” Posey asks, puzzled, earnest.

Dylan sighs. There are a few things about the werewolf experience that are unmistakably not-human and thus impossible to miss: the pointy teeth and ear thing, or the extra hair. And, apparently, the platonic cuddling, taken up a notch past the threshold of an already tactile cast. “That’s probably not the clearest way of describing it, but yeah. A thing that isn’t a thing.”

Posey looks at him for a second, then smiles. “Okay. I got your back, anyway. I mean, if you’re going to get your cuddle on, Hoechlin’s pretty hot for it.”

Dylan laughs, surprised into it. “Hah, _yeah_ he is.”

*

So everything keeps going, keeps being awesome even a couple months in. Not that it’s perfect, of course. Sometimes there’s friction where there should be smooth sailing, sometimes everyone gets on Dylan’s one remaining nerve. It’s one of _those_ nights that Posey says, “Nearly the full moon, huh, Dylan?" 

"Huh – what? Why?" He just wants to find his coffee, and Posey’s blocking his view of the craft services table.

"Not quite yourself," Hoechlin says from just behind them. Dylan can feel the defensive hunch of his shoulders in answer. How did Hoechlin even manage to sneak up on Dylan like that?

Holland snorts, earning a frown from the woman touching up her makeup.  
"Just a bit of a grumpy bear, aren't you, honey?"

"Or is it sour wolf?" Posey suggests, already laughing at the joke.

The thing is , being a werewolf is absolutely nothing like how they’re playing it, on TV. Which is fine, really, since he's not supposed to exist, and it’s television, which is about money. The studio is trying to sell werewolves to a teen audience who've grown up on all sorts of weird horror hybrid 'mythology', after all. 

But that’s its own problem. Everyone’s grown up on horror movies, these days, and it’s hard to imagine most people being cool as the Tylers have been if confronted with the reality of Dylan’s true nature. Most people, truth be told, would probably go straight for the silver bullets and skip the explanations that Posey’s only gradually bothered to get from Dylan: how the moon has as much to do with Dylan’s instincts as a week of rain affects anyone’s mood. How he’s only ever done the whole 'pointy ears and teeth and extra fur all over' thing a couple of times, and how that was only at first, before he learned how to deal. How just being aware of it is enough to keep the wolf under control. How Dylan’s got parents, not a pack. 

Of all the ‘werewolf traits’ he has to buy into for his job, in fact, the only ones that cross over into real life are the heightened senses, and weirdly enough, the strength. He’s never so much as killed a squirrel (though he’s thought about it, the annoying little fuckers) let alone anything (or anyone) else. Mainly, he gets a bit snappish, and has to alternate between being around people and seeking solitude when the people get to be too annoying. Posey’s usually good at running interference, does it unasked when the excuse of being in Stiles’ character wears too thin. 

Really, in a lot of ways, it's like having a period.

Except, of course, it’ll stop when the whole 'family curse' thing runs its seven-year course, in a year or so. Eleven months and three weeks, to be exact. 

Not that Dylan's counting.

Dylan sighs as a few other people join in laughing, and then flinches as Hoechlin touches his arm. It's only a gentle brush of his fingers, but it zings along Dylan's nerves like his arm is sunburned, an ache that radiates. "You're a comedy genius, Posey. I've got a headache," Dylan says through clenched teeth, focused on how the touch on his arm seems to be making the pressure behind his eyes even worse. "I'm going to go find some painkillers."

Immediately, Posey drops the smile. “Hey, yeah, go do that. Sorry man, I know how much that can suck. Have you been drinking enough water? I always get a headache when I’m dehydrated.”

"I’ve got some Advil in my bag," Hoechlin says, like he's trying to be helpful. “And some water?”

Dylan grits his teeth and nods once. "Thanks." He doesn't sound grateful in the slightest, but right now it's the best he can do. At least it’ll get Posey to shut up.

Hoechlin doesn't try to touch him again, holding out two bottles – pills and water — for Dylan to take, all without skin-to-skin contact. Of course, swallowing a couple of gel caps doesn't do anything for the headache, not immediately, but Hoechlin's trying to help. He's at least not making it worse. 

"Thanks," Dylan says again, audibly more sincere this time, as Hoechlin squats to zip up his bag again.

"No problem."

There's a lull, then, a small pause where they don't move, just stand there staring at one another. Dylan's mainly trying to figure out why Hoechlin has a Derek-like look of scowling perplexity, while Hoechlin – reaches out to touch. Dylan flinches back, too late to avoid contact, and gets a thumb pressed between his eyebrows.

"I can see your headache from here," Hoechlin murmurs, as instinct makes Dylan close his eyes. He can feel and smell when Hoechlin steps in close; he doesn't flinch this time. Hoechlin cradles the back of his head, fingers pressing in at the base of his skull while the thumb between Dylan’s eyebrows draws tiny circles.

"Hnngh." This time, the zingy feeling does something to the back of his knees, making them wobble a little. The warmth this time isn't hot like sunburn. It's more – sun _beam_. Gentle. Perfect.

“Never stop,” he mumbles, closing his eyes.

Hoechlin laughs, quiet. “Sure.”  
*

Hoechlin comes over to play Call of Duty with Posey the next day, and he’s still there in the morning – for once, having slept on the couch, instead of weirdly-platonically in Dylan's bed. When Dylan comes into the kitchen, he finds Hoechlin staring at the coffee maker intently, surrounded by the makings of what appears to be an epic breakfast – eggs and hash browns on the counter while bacon sizzles in a frying pan. Hoechlin looks over at the sound of Dylan's bare feet on the linoleum. "Hey, good morning."

Dylan blinks, surprised to find himself pressed up all alongside Hoechlin, who responds with raised eyebrows and an arm draped around Dylan's shoulders. The back-of-the-throat growly noise of contentment is weird in Dylan's mouth, but he goes with it, eyes closing, snuggling up close. Everything smells amazing: Hoechlin, coffee, toast, bacon. He wraps one arm around Hoechlin's waist and sighs, abruptly content.

After a few moments of this, Hoechlin says, "Is it okay if I observe that you are the king of mixed signals?"

"Sorry," Dylan murmurs, eyes still closed.

There's another pause, but he can feel Hoechlin tensing up a little this time. "Is this...a thing?"

"A thing?" Everything is so calm and warm and perfect, Dylan can't make himself tense up to match Hoechlin’s posture, can’t make himself pull away in answer.

"A – a werewolf thing, I mean."

"Mmmmm," Dylan sighs, considering the question as Hoechlin starts petting his arm, thumb sliding over the ball of his shoulder in gentle sweeps. "Maybe. A little?"

That makes Hoechlin – _Tyler_ , Dylan’s mind supplies, first name basis for this level of cuddling – almost laugh, just a little huffing exhalation. “A little, huh.”

“You smell awesome right now, but you’re great at cuddling all the time.”

Dylan feels Tyler’s smile rasp across the top of his cheek as he’s tugged in even closer. “You’re not so bad yourself,” he murmurs, and rubs his fingertips against the grain of Dylan’s hair. 

This time, Dylan’s throat catches an almost-growl, without his permission. Tyler, however, doesn’t hear this as ‘stop’ – and it _isn’t_ stop, not by any stretch of the imagination. He just keeps petting, bacon be damned. Apparently, Dylan hasn’t stopped wanting Tyler to touch him.

*

It’s a glorious day off, so eventually they head out to go bowling with Holland, Crystal and Colton. Hoechlin annihilates Dylan and Posey as usual, but Dylan is usually double digits better than Posey, rather than a measly 9. The girls and Colton watch, freshly manicured, and make sarcastic comments about bowling form that just make Hoechlin smile more. It’s distracting. Dylan totally blames his lowest score in the last two weeks on the comments. Not the smiling.

After pizza and beer, it’s a cosy cab ride back, Dylan sandwiched between Tyler and Tyler.

“You’re staying, right?” Dylan murmurs against Hoechlin’s shoulder, as they hit the second-last turn before their apartment.

“Sure, if you want.”

“Duh,” Dylan huffs, tucking his fingers under Hoechlin’s elbow and holding on for the last few seconds of the ride.

It should be weird, or awkward maybe, coming in to his bedroom behind Hoechlin – shirtless Hoechlin, who’s already unbuttoning his jeans – but Dylan just shuts the door behind him, breathing in deep to take in the almost-neutral smell that’s his own, mingled with end-of-the-day Hoechlin. A bit of sweat, sunshine, not-quite-gone deodorant, bowling shoes, pizza. 

It _should_ be weird, but it isn’t, so Dylan tugs off his own shirt, steps out of his shoes and socks, and reaches out to drag his fingertips down the length of Hoechlin’s – Tyler’s – arm, bare shoulder to watch band at his wrist. Tyler is already half-smiling, but he raises his eyebrows at this, turning towards Dylan.

“What?” he asks, mild as anything.

“Nothing,” Dylan says, and steps forward, almost on top of Tyler’s toes, reaching up to press their lips together. He keeps hold of Tyler’s wrist with one hand, fingertips tracing the curve of Tyler’s palm with the other, until their fingertips catch.

It takes only a second for Tyler to kiss back.

If anything, this is where the curse manifests itself most obviously. Not in hair and teeth and claws, but in this abrupt turn towards instinct, physicality, the sensual pleasures of touch and smell and taste taking over any kind of higher thought.

“Do you want to bite me?” Tyler asks with a smile, as Dylan pushes him down to sit on the edge of the bed, climbing on top to straddle his lap.

Dylan ducks his head and closes his teeth, very gently, on the join between Tyler’s shoulder and neck. He allows himself a quick lick, a taste, before pulling back with a kiss. “It’s not like in the movies, you know. The whole ‘getting the bite’ thing isn’t how it works in real life.”

That makes Tyler smile even wider, his hands coming around to hold on to Dylan’s ass. “I didn’t think it was, but you can bite me anyway, if you want.”

And even though that isn’t a _thing_ in Dylan’s werewolfiness, even though that’s not the point of being here, having sex — Dylan definitely feels his dick twitch in his pants at the idea. Not biting to the point of blood, but feeling Tyler _give way_ , submit? Oh, that is definitely on.

What should be off, though, are their pants. He stands, despite an initial grabbing protest from Tyler, and finishes the job of undressing himself before helping Tyler get his boxers off. Dylan hesitates, then: torn between wanting to sink down between Tyler’s knees and get his mouth full of dick, surrounding himself with smell and taste, and climbing on top of Tyler, covering him skin to skin to skin, biting down on Tyler’s shoulder, letting their cocks stick and catch and slide together.

“You look—“ Tyler starts.

“So fucking hot,” Dylan interrupts, finally able to make eye contact. “You, I mean.”

Tyler’s still smiling, but a little uncertain at the edges, in the corners of his eyes, like he doesn’t quite believe it. Just like that, plan A gets shelved in favour of plan B, because, seriously, Dylan has to kiss Tyler, and kiss him again.

It’s like it usually is, with Tyler, only better. The warm, comfortable, happy, _homey_ feeling when they touch, dialled up to eleven, as Tyler’s hands slide from the nape of Dylan’s neck, down to his ass and back up again, his eyes tightly shut when Dylan checks, his dick hot and hard against Dylan’s own. It’s better, because there’s something almost like lightning in this much skin-to-skin contact, like waiting for the flash in a thunderstorm, only – only not so dangerous or potentially destructive. Tyler has his chin tipped back, lips parted and eyes closed, the invitation clear. When Dylan doesn’t take it after two seconds, five, his eyes open and Dylan thinks _grounded_. Lightning, grounded, all that energy but _safe._ He keeps eye contact as long as he can, as he ducks his head to press his teeth into Tyler’s shoulder, gradually increasing the pressure until Tyler arches against him.

“God—“

Dylan lets his laugh be smothered into Tyler’s shoulder, sucking the skin up between his teeth to draw up a bruise.

“You can just call me Dylan,” he says, pulling away and licking his lips. 

Tyler looks stunned – _iust_ stunned enough not to mock the terrible joke – and Dylan has to just rock against him, sticky-slick with sweat and precome between them. 

“Can I hold you down?” he murmurs, pressing down on Tyler, chest to chest, teeth nipping at Tyler’s earlobe. Can I hold your wrists“—

“Yeah, fuck – yeah, do it“— And Tyler’s moving under him, restless and arrhythmic, arching again when Dylan pins his wrists on either side of his head.

Caught up in instinct like this, it’s no particular challenge for Dylan to hold Tyler down; some things about werewolves _are_ true, and strength is one of them. Tyler doesn’t test the limits, though, pushing up against Dylan only enough to keep up the slick-slip-stick-slide of their dicks, one against the other until he freezes, rigid for a moment and then shudders as he comes between them. Dylan comes too, halfway through Tyler’s aftershocks, eyes closed and mouth open for long seconds. 

He startles when there’s suddenly resistance to his grip, and then again when Tyler kisses him, but it’s only momentary. In a moment Dylan’s grounded again, coming back down to his bed, the space where there’s not just him, but Tyler too. He lets go of Tyler’s wrists, propping himself up to be able to curl his fingers around Tyler’s face instead, holding him much more gently now. 

“Wow,” Tyler says, several kisses later, smiling soft and warm.

“I know, right,” Dylan replies, smiling, inevitably.

*

After that, nothing really changes. Hoechlin is still in their apartment every other day, there’s still epic snuggling, only now with orgasms.

That, and Posey suggesting over dinner one night, that they get a place with three bedrooms if the show gets renewed.

“I get that“— he says, waving a hand in the vague direction of Dylan’s bedroom. “You know. But we can get a place big enough for“—

“My stuff too,” Hoechlin suggests. “I’ve got surfboards.”

“Yeah, and you know. Cheaper rent,” Posey continues, sitting up a little. “For everybody, right?”

Which is how the three of them end up googling for places closer to the warehouse where they’re filming, and finding a place that not only has three bedrooms, but also a patio with a barbecue. Whatever misgivings Dylan may have had about what it means that they (might) (theoretically) be all living together officially now is lost in the enthusiasm for a _grill_.

“No seriously, you guys, barbecue,” Dylan says, arms flying wide to take in the imaginary future patio. “Like, every night. Okay, at least every weekend, right? Like, Friday and Saturday, and Sunday, as long as it doesn’t interfere with the night shoot—“

Posey laughs at him, and Hoechlin too, Hoechlin who’s just standing there with his arms crossed, smiling at Dylan. 

“You eat everything rare anyway,” Posey says, pausing the game on the screen and leaning back to take the joint from Dylan’s hand. 

“Ugh, god, rare isn’t the same as _raw_ , and there’s nothing like the taste of charcoal with your meat, what are you, some kind of un-American weirdo who doesn’t like barbecue?”

Hoechlin definitely laughs this time, sitting down on the arm of the couch so he can throw one arm around Dylan’s shoulders, pulling him in close enough to nuzzle the top of his head. “We get it, it’s your natural urges at work.”

“Come on, I’ll still like barbecue when this whole curse thing finally clears up. It’s human, not wolfy, to want your food cooked on fire.” Dylan sounds petulant even to himself, but it’s insincere. He’s leaning in to Hoechlin’s embrace, rubbing his cheek along his shoulder and collarbone. “Mmm.”

“Aw, Hoechlin, you’re like catnip,” Posey says. “Wait, no. Wolf-nip?”

Though he can’t see it, Dylan can hear Hoechlin’s raised eyebrows in reply. “Wolf-nip?”

Posey laughs, before cutting himself off with a long drag. “Yeah. You know. Dylan just can’t resist you, right? Like a cat with a catnip toy. Except Dylan’s not a cat.”

“No,” Hoechlin agrees, after a too-long pause. “He’s just – cursed?” He pets Dylan’s arm as he says this, and vaguely, Dylan thinks he ought to probably say something in response.

“Yeah,” Posey agrees. “Seems to really be getting him down, huh. Can’t even win at GTA.”

Dylan snorts, but stays tucked up along Hoechlin’s side, eyes closed. “Like you ever win when you’re baked, Posey.” The conversation veers abruptly away from Dylan then, and it’s easier to let the conversation flow on without him, blissed out as he is.

They should probably talk about it, is the thing. Dylan nudges his nose into the fabric of Hoechlin’s sleeve and decides – later. Later, they’ll – there should be talking.

*

There’s a ‘later’ when they’re lying on top of the sheets, sweaty and naked, still touching though also as spread-eagled as they both can be on a queen-sized bed. Their heartbeats are still in sync, which is as satisfying as the taste of Tyler on the roof of his mouth, and the overall smell of the room which is just _them_ , undifferentiatable. Everything is _right_ just now. Bringing it up seems easier, somehow, than Dylan thought it would be.

“So, dude,” he says by way of introducing the subject. He rolls his head to the side to catch Tyler’s eye, exhausted and happy.

Tyler does the same, blinking once before smiling, slow and bright. “Yeah?”

It’s distracting. Dylan finds himself thinking, abruptly, _I’m so into you_. He has to shake his head to bring the initial thought back. It arrives in fragments, and leaves his mouth that way too. “Just ask. If there’s anything you want to know. About anything.”

Tyler rolls over at this, onto his side, propping his head up on his hand. The smile’s still there, if a little faded. “Yeah?” His smile brightens. “Like why the sex is so hot?”

Dylan rolls over to match, reaching out to rub the back of his fingers against the stubble along Tyler’s cheek. He leans into it, returning the caress, his eyes closing. He should say something, finish that important werewolf-related train of thought, but he wriggles a little bit closer and kisses Tyler instead. “Because I am a sex god,” he murmurs, in between kisses, unable to be serious. “With magical sexy powers of sex.”

Tyler doesn’t seem to mind the subject shift. There are needful soft noises vibrating in his chest under Dylan’s palm, and his willingness is tangible in the clutch of his fingers around Dylan’s wrist.

Talking can wait, surely, for another ‘later.’

*

But it’s never been a thing, talking about Dylan’s 'condition', not between them. ‘Later’ gets swallowed up, honestly, in sleepless night shoot workdays.

Posey is the one who brings it up again, a couple weeks later, coincidentally when Hoechlin has the day off because they’re shooting some lacrosse scenes. “Hey dude," he says, while Jeff is talking to Colton about something to do with his helmet. “How much longer do you have until the curse thing wears off?"

Dylan has to think about it for a second before answering. It's surprising how the answer isn’t on the tip of his tongue, for the first time in years. So he prevaricates while trying to work out what’s different now.

“Um. Why?" Okay, it’s not his finest moment.

“Hoechlin was asking. I think he's making a countdown app for his phone or something.”

Whoa. “What? Why?" Dylan should be treating it as a joke right now, but somehow he can’t bring himself to do it.

Posey shrugs, and Dylan is distantly aware that he’s so lucky to have such a committed pot smoker as a friend. “Dunno. Guess he wants to celebrate the end of your weirdness or something? Do you actually have an exact date?”

“October twenty fourth,” Dylan says absently. “2011.”

Posey laughs at this, pushing a fist against Dylan’s shoulder. “That’s so funny, dude.”

Dylan is about to actually, maybe, talk about this, but they’re apparently ready for more lacrosse, so that’s the end of that.

Wrapping the show and packing up feels utterly surreal. It’s probably because they’ve been sleep-deprived for weeks, and doing stuff during the day has taken on this dreamlike aura. So, he films the last Atlanta scenes – out in the woods, watching the sun filtering through the branches as the freeway wakes up alongside – then goes out and drinks himself stupid with everyone. It doesn’t make anything feel any more real.

Hungover packing is painful, especially when he’d rather just keep up with the lazy post-coital makeouts until they can get it up again for more orgasms. But Dylan has a flight to get, and maybe three days at home before he has to be on set for _The First Time_.

Hoechlin has to help; half his stuff has ended up in Dylan’s room anyway. It’s a nearly-non-verbal event, with shirts, socks and underwear flying into opposite heaps. 

“This is yours, isn’t it?” A Mets shirt ends up in the pile by the door.

“Damn, you’ve seen through my plan to subconsciously get you to root for the right team.”

What they _don’t_ do is talk about what happens when Dylan isn’t close enough to Tyler for instinct to lead. Of course, they’ll see each other, but they leave unexplored the bigger question: what happens during a snuggle hiatus?

“I’ll call you,” Dylan says, up on tiptoes to get his arms around Hoechlin’s neck. They’re pressed against one another, cheeks to knees, Dylan’s cab idling in the street behind him.

Hoechlin squeezes him that little bit tighter. “I’ll be in Santa Monica on Monday. And I’ll see you for reshoots.”

“Of course.”

It’s probably starting to look weird, the way they’re clinging to one another, so Dylan makes himself step back, smoothing his palms down his shirt. Hoechlin rocks back on his heels and forward again, smile small. “Have a good flight.”

*

_Renewed omg yesssssss!!_  
 _Three bed place in Atlanta in the fall?_  
 _Dude, YES. Patio and grill!_  
 _:)_  
 _:) :)_

*

It’s not what Dylan expected, being on set for something totally unlike Teen Wolf. He’s definitely associated acting, his _job_ with a certain amount of freedom he can’t assume with this new cast, people he’s only just met (people he’s not living with, let alone sleeping with). It does get to be friendly and close, especially after the hilarity of on-camera makeouts (least sexy thing ever) but it isn’t like Atlanta. It can’t be, not really.

*

_I really missed these sunsets._  
 _That’s gorgeous. Side career in photog?_  
 _Hah yeah maybe. How’s shooting?_  
 _Oh you know same old same old. You been surfing?_  
 _You know it :)_

*

It helps that the summer is broken up by spending time at home, getting his laundry done by his mom, eating the barbecue his dad cooks up way more frequently than he ever bothered to when Dylan actually lived at home. It’s home, but somehow supersized.  
And then there’s seeing everyone now and then, Holland and Posey and Colton and Hoechlin, with bonus Crystal a couple times too. Dylan makes a face but drinks his margaritas virgin because his fake ID needs replacing, getting a contact tipsy just from sitting next to Colton. It’s like Atlanta, without the sleep deprivation.

Of course, the next day on set he doesn’t have a hangover, so it’s probably for the best.

*

_PLEASE TELL ME YOU’RE WATCHING THIS GAME._  
 _Mets-Phillies? You bet! :)_  
 _Four runs up after four innings I can’t even believe it is this my team???_  
 _:D haha yep looks like!_  
 _It won’t last, even if they win this game but man it’s great!_  
 _Three runs!!_  
 _INSANE! wish you were here to watch too_  
 _Me too :)_

*

In short, between the periodic meeting up that they squeeze in over the summer, and the weekly text communication, Dylan really doesn’t have any reason to _miss_ Hoechlin. He’s busy, Hoechlin’s busy, they’ll be spending months together come October…there’s just no rational reason for it.

So it’s kind of a surprise how great it is to see Hoechlin walk out of arrivals, duffle on one shoulder, other hand occupied with a rolling suitcase. Dylan actually has to restrain himself from climbing him. Instead, he takes the duffle, matching Hoechlin’s grin, and leads the way to his car. In the dim exhaust-fumed echoey concrete parkade he lets himself drop the duffle and give in to the impulse to squeeze Hoechlin until his leather jacket creaks.

“Missed you too, buddy,” says Hoechlin breathlessly in reply. It’s amazing he can even speak, the way Dylan’s holding on, but apparently he can get those few words out.

“Mmmf,” Dylan replies, taking in a deep breath himself. Hoechlin smells mostly of deodorant and recycled air, but just enough like himself to be intensely satisfying. It’s just as hard to let go as to resist the impulse to hug him in the first place. He manages it, after an embarrassing number of extra seconds, and can feel his cheeks go hot when he realizes Hoechlin’s amused smile hasn’t shifted in the slightest.

“We should go,” Dylan says, twisting to look at the car. “I left Posey with strict instructions on how to make pasta, but dude can get toast wrong, so…”

Hoechlin laughs at this, which Dylan can’t help but turn towards, tipping easily into another hug when Hoechlin pulls him in. “Well, we better go save our dinner, then.” Hoechlin doesn’t move right away, though, and Dylan can’t bring himself to be the one to let go first.

They do manage to get on the road at last, and Dylan gets to show off in real life what has been until now only a series of emailed smartphone pictures, landmarks around their new stomping grounds. He points out the various important points of interest, including the “award winning pizza, man” place and the liquor store and the old-school movie and games rental place.

“It looks good,” Hoechlin reassures him as they pull up and park. “Like I said, if the balcony is big enough for a grill, we’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, yeah, wait until you see the size of your room,” Dylan warns him, smiling.

Hoechlin doesn’t reply to this but they’re busy getting out of the car and getting the luggage. The issue doesn’t resurface until later: after they actually make the pasta Posey completely forgot about, after a bit of a Call of Duty marathon.

“You want a hand getting your stuff in your room?” Dylan asks, stretching his arms up when Hoechlin stands up from the couch, leaving a cool space all along Dylan’s side.

“Yeah, thanks,” Hoechlin smiles, holding his hand out to help pull Dylan up.

Hoechlin’s bedroom is the smallest of the three in the apartment; the double bed takes up most of the room, with a small dresser wedged in alongside the foot of the bed. There’s a closet too, and a bedside table, but that’s it.

“Um. I’m glad you didn’t bring your surfboards?” Dylan says as he drops Hoechlin’s duffle on the bed.

“I’m getting them in a few weeks,” Hoechlin answers distractedly, hefting his suitcase in next to the dresser. He leans past Dylan to do it, and with that breath of Tyler-scented air, Dylan suddenly can’t stand it. As Tyler straightens, Dylan grabs the shoulder of his henley, twisting his hand so Tyler’s back ends up pressed to the wall. He looks an odd combination of startled-and-not, and if Dylan could wait one more second, would probably meet him halfway. As it is, he gets as far as parting his lips before Dylan’s kissing him.

“You still smell like airplane,” Dylan says, several breathless minutes later as he’s pulling at the hem of Tyler’s shirt. “Off, off “—

“You too,” Tyler replies, when he’s emerged, hair mussed, from his shirt. “I can’t complain about how you smell, but“— He cuts himself off and helps Dylan yank his shirt off, throwing it in the direction of the still-open door.

Dylan doesn’t stop, then. He reaches for Tyler’s jeans first, pushing at the waistband until they’re halfway down his thighs before turning his attention to his own. He fumbles the button a few times, hands inexplicably unsteady as Tyler crouches in front of him to take off his own shoes and socks. And then Tyler _stays_ down, shifting to his knees into the cramped space between bed and wall.

“Let me help,” Tyler murmurs, looking up with his fingers already tugging on Dylan’s waistband. Dylan knows his mouth is open, and he sucks in his lower lip, biting down hard as Tyler gets his jeans open, tugging at his briefs. “Can I “—

“Yeah,” Dylan says, interrupting, sounding insanely breathless to his own ears. “Yeah, whatever you want, go for it.”

‘Whatever Tyler wants’ turns out to be giving a messy, needy blowjob, full of subvocal whimpers and desperation. Dylan keeps his hands pressed to the wall at first, leaving Tyler to set his own pace. After a few minutes, though, Tyler reaches for his hand, without letting up on the slick slide of his mouth and tongue on Dylan’s dick, encouraging Dylan to take hold of Tyler’s hair. Dylan tugs on it experimentally, which elicits an almost-whine from Tyler. 

“You want me to make you take it?” Dylan murmurs, sliding his hand around to Tyler’s cheek, thumb brushing his eyebrow. “You want me to push you down till you can’t breathe, till you can only taste and smell me?”

Tyler doesn’t nod, but he maintains eye contact and makes a sound in the back of his throat that can’t be anything but desperate approval. Dylan closes his eyes for a second; it’s such a gorgeous image, he’s abruptly worried he’s going to come too soon. He puts his hands, gentle and careful, on the back of Tyler’s head, opening his eyes to see that Tyler’s closed his. Dylan can also see that Tyler’s rock hard, but his hands are palm-down on his thighs; he isn’t touching himself. Dylan has to close his eyes again, to concentrate on the sensation of his dick sliding into Tyler’s mouth, past soft lips, against his tongue, head pushing against the back of his throat. He shudders, pulls back, listens to Tyler’s quick drag of air in through his nose, and rocks forward again—again—again.

When he comes, he’s buried deep, hips jerking as he feels Tyler swallow over and over. Dylan pulls back before he’s done, though, so Tyler can taste him – so Dylan can taste himself in Tyler’s mouth. There’s barely enough room for Dylan to get down on his knees with Tyler, but he wiggles and makes it work, kissing him with post-coital desperation, his hand curling around Tyler’s dick. Tyler holds on tightly, one hand gripping Dylan’s bicep, the other around the back of his neck like there’s some chance Dylan’s going to go anywhere.

“Shh, I’m right here,” Dylan murmurs, in between kisses, the heel of his hand slipping over the head of Tyler’s cock, catching the precome as he pulls Tyler closer to orgasm.

“Dylan.“ His voice is wrecked, and Dylan feels his dick twitch in response.

“Yeah, c’mon,” he says, petting Tyler's hair away from his forehead, then sliding his hand down Tyler’s back, fingers teasing along the crack of his ass. “Do it, come on me.”

It takes another couple strokes, Dylan biting down on Tyler’s shoulder, but he does come then, lips parted and eyes closed. He trembles and trembles some more, tipped forward against Dylan, louder now as he tries to catch his breath.

“This isn’t quite what I pictured as a homecoming,” Tyler says, quiet and gasping, “but I can’t really complain.” He lifts his head, already smiling. 

Dylan has to swallow hard, his fingertips tingling. “I’m a mess,” he says, instead of a million other things. “Want to help clean up?” He holds up his hand, slick with Tyler’s come, and licks up the side of his own thumb. 

The taste is almost overwhelming, memory and desire, and he doesn’t even realize he’s closed his eyes until he’s startled by the feel of Tyler’s tongue licking up the middle of his palm. He shudders, caught abruptly by Tyler’s uncharacteristically intense look even as he licks Dylan’s hand again. It’s too much to take; somehow he falls forward into a kiss, smearing come on Tyler’s shoulder, trying to pull him closer. The taste is intense, Tyler and Dylan and Tyler again, taste and smell and heartbeat, all in sync.

*

“I don’t mind sharing my bed with you,” Tyler says, an hour and another orgasm each later. “But we might need to unpack some sheets.”

“My bed’s got sheets,” Dylan says, lips brushing Tyler’s jaw as he speaks. It makes them tingle, the stubble raspy and _great_.

“Problem solved?”

“Problem definitely solved. Just—in a minute, I got a good cuddle going on here.”

Tyler’s smile rasps against Dylan’s lips.

*

“You won’t tell on me if I order pancakes, right?” Hoechlin asks as they wait for the waitress to come and take their order.

“What? No, dude, no way. You eat your pancakes and your bacon and your, your – whatever else. Your secret’s safe with me.” It’s a bright and chilly morning, the sun slanting across the tables at the far end of the restaurant, spotlight-illuminating couples in their seventies. Dylan barely notices, his gaze catching on the curve of Hoechlin’s cheekbone, the clear green of his eyes, the smell of forest-makeup-sweat coming off him. Dylan licks his lips, looks down at the menu.

In his peripheral vision, Hoechlin smiles, bumping his foot against Dylan’s. He presses their knees together as the waitress comes over with the coffee pot and her notepad to take their order. Under the table, Dylan’s other knee jumps up and down, the back of his calf tight.

“So, uh…how come the breakfast date?” he asks, putting the capstone on a pyramid of the plastic creamer containers.

Hoechlin stops stirring his coffee, but it takes a second before he lifts his gaze up to make eye contact with Dylan. Both of his knees are jiggling now, and Dylan holds up one finger even before Hoechlin can open his mouth. 

“Not that it isn’t awesome to get breakfast, it’s the most important meal of the day, even if you’re eating it and going to sleep. I think, anyway. I mean, who doesn’t like breakfast?”

Hoechlin half smiles, and looks back down at his coffee, giving it another couple of stirs before pulling the spoon out, clinking it gently against the edge of the mug. “You sound like Stiles.”

Dylan blinks, and then scrubs his hands over his face. “Ugh, long night, man. Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it, I don’t mind.” Hoechlin hesitates, looking at his spoon again, then up at Dylan. “I just wanted to have a chance for us to…catch up. Talk.”

Dylan bobs his head, pressing his lips together. His knees are still jiggling under the table, and he traps his hands between them, like that’s going to help anything. “Right, cool, sure. Yep.”

Hoechlin looks at him, and hesitates again, and Dylan isn’t stupid, knows this isn’t good. It’s been three weeks since the start of the new shooting season. This is the first time they’ve sat down like this, and even this tired, he can’t convince himself he’s surprised they’re here. What he’s supposed to _do about it_ , though, is a little beyond his sleep-deprived brain. 

“I guess there is one thing on my mind, and I… I didn’t want to assume you wanted to talk about it with anyone else around, so.” Hoechlin looks around the restaurant, then briefly at Dylan, gaze slipping away after a second.

“Okay,” Dylan says, after a couple of seconds, after it seems like Hoechlin might be waiting for an answer.

There it is, then: eye contact, and a hint of a smile. "So, it's been really awesome living in the same house as you and Posey."

Oh, Jesus. This is not what Dylan was expecting. Three weeks of pretending there’s nothing special going on comes rushing back all at once. Apparently playing the ostrich hasn’t worked, not even on himself.

“The video game tournaments have been great, and having more than just me to cook for, and _being cooked for_ and all that – I really love having you guys as roommates. And you — well, I guess we’re really roommates.”

 _Room_ mates. Dylan takes a breath and holds it, as Hoechlin makes eye contact. 

“Even though I have my own room, I guess it’s been pretty obvious “— Hoechlin stops. “If Posey’s noticed, then, you know? Well.”

This is more terrible than Dylan expected. “Tyler“— 

“Okay, okay, cutting to the chase, I guess I just wanted you to know, I’ve got no complaints, okay? It’s good. It’s been good.”

Dylan bobs his head, because his mouth is dry and if he starts talking now, he’ll probably choke and this is embarrassing enough as it is.

“But, you know. It’ll be the twenty-fourth on Saturday, and I guess I just really wanted to know if I should be looking at moving my stuff back into my own room.”

He stops then and looks at Dylan expectantly. Dylan can feel that his lips are parted, but he’s not even breathing, let alone able to respond.

Tyler takes a breath, deep like he needs diaphragm control for this, and continues. “Because it’s totally cool, I get it, not a problem, I don’t want to make anything weird, we have to work together, and I don’t“—

“Why would I want you to move your stuff to your room?” Dylan asks, finally able to speak. He’s not sure, right now, that he hasn’t dozed off and this is some pseudo-real nightmare. He curls his hand around his coffee cup, and quickly retracts it – hot, too hot, definitely real.

Tyler blinks once at him, pressing his lips together to make a dimple flash into existence, then vanish again. “Well, I’m not sure, really. I wanted to check, you know, to—to make sure I wasn’t overstaying my welcome. I mean, Posey said this—curse thing—is almost over.”

The curse. A thousand tiny realizations fall into a picture in a matter of seconds. The curse, of course. Werewolves. They’ve been dating, actually dating, and Tyler thinks— Dylan unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth and leans forward, shaking his head, clearing his throat. “Yeah, it is, but it’s not—it was never—why would you think that I would “— He stops, staring at the ragged edges of his cuticles, trapped between anxious and relieved.

“So, we’re cool?” Tyler asks, after one beat becomes two, and three. Dylan looks up from his folded hands, takes in Tyler’s (frankly, heart-stopping) smile and finds himself relaxing all at once, abrupt as a puppet with its strings cut.

“As long as you don’t move your shit anywhere.” And then, even though it’s an IHOP and anyone might see, he reaches across the table and grabs Tyler’s hand and holds on.

_Epilogue_

Dylan wakes up on Sunday morning feeling immediately that something is off. At first it feels like he’s getting a cold, hearing a bit muffled, smell deadened, touch muted. Then he remembers the day and he sighs out with relief.

It’s done.

Tyler is curled up like a comma beside him, still fast asleep. Dylan leans over, inhaling deeply as he nuzzles right next to Tyler’s ear. He still smells _right_ , even if it’s muted now.

He also sleeps like a rock, so Dylan has no problem gently rolling him onto his back and pulling back the covers so he can settle down between his thighs and first nuzzle, then mouth and lick at Tyler’s cock.

But Hoechlin must actually not be sleeping that deeply after all, because it only takes a few minutes until he stirs, arching up slow and salty-sweet. Dylan licks up the underside of his dick, and sucks the tip into his mouth, keeping his gaze tilted up so he can see the moment Tyler’s eyes blink open, as he wakes and understands what’s happening.

“Dylan…”

It’s Dylan’s cue to slide his mouth down further, until he can’t breathe, before pulling back and letting his hand take over.

“Morning,” he says, then coughs once.

Tyler’s eyes close for a second, his hips coming up off the bed as his head tips back. “Ah—you“—

“I was going to blow you,” Dylan says, crawling up to lie next to Tyler, his hand still moving on Tyler’s cock. “But now that I’ve had a good look – and taste and touch – of this dick of yours, I wonder if it’s not a better idea to sit on it instead.”

Tyler blinks a couple of times, and then smiles slowly. It’s the full-dazzling-effect red carpet smile, not the usual small smile he reserves for Dylan, but Dylan isn’t complaining. He’s just smiling right back at him.

“You say the sweetest things, dude.”

“S’why I’m irresistible,” Dylan almost-whispers, letting the pull that’s as inevitable as gravity drag him forward into a stubble-rough kiss.

They lose minutes that feel like hours, kissing without any particular hurry in the Sunday-morning-calm of Dylan’s – of _their_ – bed.

It doesn’t last, though. Dylan wants to come – more than that, he wants to watch Tyler come, watch the way he grimaces and frowns as he gets close, and then the way his features smooth out into a silent _ah_ as he comes. He wants to watch, and feel, and smell, and have it all be purely human.

“You really want to,“ Tyler says, when Dylan moves back far enough to let him speak. They’re both breathing heavily, Tyler restlessly petting Dylan from nape to tailbone, so it takes a couple seconds for him to realize that Tyler isn’t going to finish his sentence.

“Yeah, I really want your dick in my ass,” Dylan says with a smile, lifting a little into Tyler’s touch as he slides inevitably downwards again. “That okay with you?”

Tyler laughs, letting his fingers finally slide down to follow the cleft of the aforementioned ass, middle fingertip dragging, dry. “More than okay. Fantastic, actually.”

Dylan grins, propping himself up to reach for the lube and the condoms. “You want to help?” he asks, leaving the condom on Tyler’s chest, squeezing lube onto his fingers. “You have nice fingers, and I like a good stretch.”

He grins when Tyler’s eyes shut and he unintentionally arches, his dick sliding along Dylan’s ass. He doesn’t reply, though, just opens his eyes again and watches, his hands holding on to Dylan’s hips as Dylan concentrates on working one finger in.

He doesn’t realize he’s got his head tipped back and his eyes closed until he feels Tyler’s hand leave his hip, and a finger gently rest on his chin, tugging it down. “Hey,” Tyler says, when Dylan blinks at him in silent question.

“Hi?” Dylan checks, unsure.

“Just wanted to appreciate the view the ceiling was getting,” Tyler says, his hand sliding around to join Dylan’s, one finger tentatively brushing against his palm.

“Sorry,” Dylan says, conscious of the impulse to tip his head back again. “Yeah, c’mon, give me more—ahh“—

Tyler’s finger is still dry, so the friction is sharp and bright – something close to perfect. Dylan does give in then, his head falling back, arching into the sensation.

“Am I hurting you?”

“God—no—a little, fuck, it feels so good.”

“Save something for the main attraction,” Tyler replies bemusedly, and Dylan loses the feeling of the extra stretch for a couple seconds, only to get it back with a slick cold slide. He shudders, leaning forward, spine curling as he tries to find space inside himself for a third finger.

“You’re good,” Tyler says, a lot closer than Dylan expects, right before he’s being kissed. “You’re good,” Tyler repeats a few moments later, “So good, so hot.”

“Fuck, I “— It shouldn’t be this intense. Not anymore. He has to concentrate to be able to open his eyes, startled again by how close Tyler is. How amazing his eyes look in the diffuse morning light. “Maybe it’s just you.”

Tyler continues to look bemused, and Dylan is going to try to explain, but Tyler shifts his finger just so, and words are abruptly out of reach.

“Are you good?” Tyler asks, two or a million seconds later. “I want to“—

Dylan nods, his head hanging down between his shoulders, eyes shut though he really should be appreciating the visual of how incredibly hot Tyler looks, lying underneath him. He nods and nods again, waiting for Tyler to slide his finger out before doing the same.

Tyler’s dick is bigger than three fingers. Objectively, Dylan knew this. He’s had his mouth on it, he’s held it in his right hand, and his left, and he’s made a close visual inspection. Knowing this doesn’t seem to matter, though, as he’s knocked breathless by the slow-steady-inevitable-push up and inside.

“Oh.” It’s not so much a word as a sound, forced out of Dylan’s lungs, his throat.

“Oh,” Tyler echoes, and at least it’s the same sound, the same vowel-rich amazement Dylan’s feeling, taking in more and more of Tyler until his ass is flush with Tyler’s thighs. 

It takes one breath, then another, stacking tight one on top of the other in his chest before Dylan can exhale. “We’re doing this again. A lot.” Dylan takes Tyler’s clean hand, clutching it tightly as he shifts experimentally. It isn’t so much that it hurts – though it does, a little – or that it feels good – which, it does – but it’s somehow the combination of these two should-be-opposites that culminates into _intense_.

It’s intense and overwhelming.

“Okay,” Tyler says, voice taut. “I—okay, yeah.”

“Give me a second. Just—a second and I’ll “— Dylan has to be the one in charge, on top as he is. He has to be the one to shift his weight forward, let go of Tyler’s hand to brace himself. He has to move, so that Tyler’s cock can slide out, just a little, then back in again.

“Oh my god“—

“I’ll get it—just—fff—oh, there“— 

Dylan barely notices when Tyler’s hands end up on his hips, heedless of leftover lube. He only notices after a few strokes, when everything is easier, smoother.

He’s focused on all the human sensations – the pressure-drag–spark of Tyler’s cock in his ass, the little involuntary sounds Tyler’s making, the way he _looks_ like it’s still a surprise that Dylan is here, the lingering taste of Tyler on his lips – so it takes him a while even notice that, comparatively, his dick is getting neglected.

Until Tyler shifts enough, knees bent, to free one hand enough to slide around Dylan’s dick.

“Can you come like this?”

“Yeah,” Dylan says, after several breathless seconds where he has to close his eyes. “But you first.”

Tyler pauses for a second, then another, their rhythm thrown off by the way he freezes. Dylan’s ready to ask what’s up, lips parted in anticipation, when Tyler shifts suddenly, pushing himself up to kiss Dylan, all teeth and desperation. 

It’s been _hours_ – no, _days_ since the last time. Dylan gets one hand around the back of Tyler’s neck to keep him there, kissing him back. It’s messy and deeply satisfying, especially when Tyler groans, and Dylan pulls back just enough to watch the frown lines disappear from between his eyebrows. They shudder together, Tyler coming, Dylan so, so, so close.

He’s still there, right on the edge, when Tyler opens his eyes, still out of breath.

“Please, I want you to,” Dylan says, shifting as Tyler twitches inside him, still. He leans back on the heels of his palms, chin tipped up and eyes closed, as Tyler curls a spit-slick hand around his cock.

“Like this, with me still in you?”

“Yeah, I’m going to come all over you,” Dylan says, squirming. “Make you filthy.”

“Jesus, Dylan, are you trying to kill me?”

“No,” Dylan replies honestly. “I“— But the rest of the sentence, whatever it might have been, dies as suddenly he’s _there_ and everything else in the world disappears as he comes.

His senses come back online in stages. He’s lying on Tyler’s chest, with Tyler’s arms curled protectively around him. There’s—yes, there’s come drying between them. He can hear Tyler’s heartbeat, and a low tuneless soothing humming echoing in his chest. He blinks his eyes open – and sighs. 

“You back?” Tyler asks after a few seconds.

“Mmmm,” Dylan replies, stretching a little. He’s going to have to move in a second so they can get rid of the condom, and before it gets to be too much sensation.

In a minute.

“So, was it different today?” Tyler murmurs, one hand now shifted to pet the back of Dylan’s head. “Now that—you know.”

Dylan hums, closing his eyes again. “Mmmm. Was it different for you?”

Tyler stops petting. He doesn’t answer right away, and then for several moments after that. Dylan opens his eyes, and gives in to the inevitable, pushing himself up, wincing at the tacky pull against his skin. He shifts off Tyler entirely, flopping over next to him on the bed, wincing again. Beside him, Tyler shifts, dropping the condom somewhere off the bed.

“You can’t tell me the sex wasn’t good,” Dylan says, knowing he’s avoiding eye contact but unable to bring himself to do anything about it. “Because it was.”

“Dylan.”

“What?’

Tyler reaches across, first squeezing Dylan’s hand, then his elbow, tugging until Dylan rolls over on his side. “It was different, yeah.” His eyes are open wide, clear and bright, and he’s smiling, just a little; Dylan is so, so lost. “It was better.”

“Better?” He sounds so hoarse.

Tyler’s smile gets a little wider, and he reaches out, stroking his thumb over the top of Dylan’s cheek. “Like it was—bigger. And – we were – in it together.”

“Hah.”

Tyler shakes his head, still smiling. “You know what I mean.”

And—Dylan does. Everything’s _less_ now, and yet somehow, with Tyler, _more_. He’s free, again, to be himself.

“Definitely,” he says, and kisses Tyler back.

**Author's Note:**

> This would not exist without Cim's cheerleading and beta work, or toomuchplor's handholding and extensive recrafting of pain-meds-influenced writing. Seriously, could not have done it without you guys. <3
> 
> Remaining errors, as ever, are mine.
> 
> The Irish werewolf folklore stuff is based on Actual Folklore Texts (unlike, say, all of Teen Wolf). If you're curious, you can read about it here: http://amayodruid.blogspot.co.uk/2010/08/werewolves-in-irish-folklore.html.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Surprise](https://archiveofourown.org/works/527118) by [cimorene](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cimorene/pseuds/cimorene)




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